A Hero to Serve You
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: Kozmotis Pitchiner. North had built the man in Jack's mind, shaping him with his words into someone larger than life, imposing, and dignified. But the man in reality? He was nothing at all like that. Jack knew because he was currently enjoying an exciting bout of Agoraphobia on top of a good long mourn for a lifetime lost in one of North's extra rooms. Slash, BDSM themes


"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."  
- Plato

Shortly after becoming a Guardian, North had taken the opportunity to sit Jack down and fill him in on everything he'd been missing up until that point as far as Guardian history went. It had taken several days to get the whole story, and Jack had to admit he was enthralled. North had lent him some books, old, old tomes that contained stories and historical accounts of the Golden Ages. Jack had read them all, lapped them up like a kitten to cream, and when he'd finished them he's bothered Sandy, the short man all too happy to have a willing audience for his first-hand recollections. By all accounts, the Golden Ages had been an adventurous, romantic time, and Jack found himself yearning, just a little, to have been a part of it. The best part of it all though, in Jack's opinion, was all the real-life heroes. Jack had never considered himself a hero, despite being a Guardian, even though he'd made a stand against Pitch all those years ago. No he was just a guy who'd done what he'd had too; who'd done his job protecting children, even if it hadn't been official until after the dust had settled. Jack was nothing like the people he'd read about in books, like the Tsar and Tsarina, like Sandy, but mostly, like Kozmotis Pitchiner.

North had made sure Jack knew all about Kozmotis Pitchiner; about the man who would one day fail, the man whose fatherly love would eventually be his ruination.

Kozmotis Pitchiner, who would become Pitch Black.

North had built the man in Jack's mind, shaping him with his words into someone larger than life, imposing, and dignified. But the man in reality? He was nothing at all like that.

Jack knew because he was currently enjoying an exciting bout of Agoraphobia on top of a good long mourn for a lifetime lost in one of North's extra rooms.

Okay firstly, this totally wasn't Jack's fault. When he'd tripped over a severely weakened Pitch over a month ago, and nearly a decade after their showdown in Burgess, Jack had done the only sensible thing and had immediately contacted the Sandman, the only one he figured could stand a fair chance going toe-to-toe with the Boogeyman. It was exceedingly obvious by the time that Sandy had dragged him back to Santoff Claussen that Pitch wasn't in any position to hurt anyone. In fact, Pitch barely even seemed to be, well, _Pitch_ anymore, with natural flesh-toned patches beginning to show through the usual grey of his skin. There was something softer about the man, something a little less foreboding. Not that Jack was really any less unsettled being around him, but he blamed that mostly on the memory of their confrontation in Antarctica, and how, for one millisecond, Jack had very nearly said _yes._ Hey, loneliness and rejection would do that to a guy, but Jack's will had been stronger than his fear, and he'd stood his ground. He'd never forgotten that moment of weakness though, and never spoken of it to the others. It was his secret, a hidden, silent shame he carried as a reminder of what could have been, of how close he'd come to the edge.

Pitch had been sequestered in a little-used room they'd emptied of everything save a cot and a small side table for medical supplies. Pitch had been feverish and delusional, slipping from fantasies and nightmares to total unconsciousness for weeks, tended to only by the bravest of Yeti's, North when he could spare the time, and the Sandman himself.

And Jack, of course. Jack, who had decided to stay as far away from the crazy man as possible. Jack who was drawn back time and time again, to watch the sleeping, handsome face.

As the days passed, more and more grey leached from Pitch's skin, the man slowly turning a pale, but far more natural skin tone, black ichors seeping from his very pores like tar. Jack had been volunteered into holding the bowl of water mixed with dream sand for North or Sandy once a day as the men took turns bathing the naked man with a cool cloth, and had found he deeply, deeply disturbed by the fact that the black ooze hissed and steamed when touched with the water and sand mixture. In fact, there were a couple times that Jack could swear the goo was sentient enough to move. Not much, but just enough to try and squirm away from the Guardian's ministrations. Jack could also swear he heard a sound like screaming, or the howling of something feral, or the stars cracking in the sky every time the black-soaked rag was dipped and rinsed, the darkness not staining the water like blood would have but instead dissipating into nothingness, leaving the water golden and faintly glowing with Sandy's unique contribution.

One day, halfway into the second week, Jack had gotten distracted as Pitch had appeared to begin suffering from a nightmare during the ritualistic cleansing. Sandy had frowned and tried to change the dream, to twist it into something more pleasant, but all good dreams turned to nightmares in Pitch's hands even his own, even if he didn't mean too. The man had thrashed and flailed in his slumber, naked limbs becoming inadvertent weapons. Panicked, Jack felt the temperature drop in response to his heightened emotions. That was when one surprisingly powerful arm had caught Sandy on the shoulder, sending the smaller man tumbling to the side. Jack had dove for his friend in a knee-jerk defensive reactions, nearly tossing the bowl he'd been holding aside to do so.

The bowl which had partially frozen in his hands.

The ice and water, still glowing gold with sand had smashed against the edge of the cot, spraying both the floor and a terrified and struggling Pitch with the slushy mixture. Jack managed to catch Sandy and right them both just in time to hear Pitch scream, a high, unnatural noise that could not have been made by a human throat. Both Jack and Sandy had watched, horrified, as, back arching clean off the bed, the man's wet stomach had heaved and steamed, little shadowy things crawling about like bugs under his sin before bursting forth, only to flop to the sheets and die, shrivelling into nothing but tiny black husks next to his hips and ribs. It seemed to go one for hours, but in reality could only have been seconds before Pitch sagged back to the sheets like a puppet with cut strings, still unconscious, a trail of bloody drool running from the corners of his lips where he'd bitten his tongue with agony. On his stomach, against abdominals perfect enough to make Angel's weep, there was a patch of pure, natural skin, nearly as pale as Jack himself was.

After that, Jack was no longer just a bowl-holder, no; it was his job to keep the water and sand at the perfect slushy consistency while either North or Sandy administered the sponge bath. The icy compound seemed to work three times as fast as the plain water had, a fact that had made Sandy shrug, signing to the others that he figured it had something to do with Jack's centre; with the joy that naturally infused his powers aiding the dream sand to be that much more effective in purifying the shadows.

Because that's what the black, writhing stuff was apparently, liquid shadows.

Fearlings.

Leaking out of the body they'd been possessing for millennia.

Jack had excused himself after hearing that, flying as far into the desolate tundra as he could make it before he'd collapsed to the ground, heaving up everything he' eaten since he was a human, and probably his last meal back then to boot. Suddenly, storytime with Sandy seemed much, much more real, as Jack realized the man in the cot was not Pitch Black, but General Pitchiner. In that sick bed lay a hero brought low, infected and suffering and at the mercy of his once-enemies for salvation.

Jack retched once again, just for good measure.

That was two weeks ago, and with Jack's powers aiding the process the essence of Pitch Black had faded quickly, being replaced by a once-good man. Pitchiner was too thin, lacking the thin layer of body fat that healthy adults would have, but still in good shape. He'd be sore from being mattress bound, but his long limbs were still strong, covered in a lean layer of whipcord muscle and sinew. His face was as angular as ever, but the lines of his eyes seemed less pinched, and there was less hostility in the set of his full lips. His night terrors had calmed, retreating slowly into the same nothingness that the blackness had, and while Sandy could still not give him pleasant dream without them twisting, he could at least sleep unencumbered by the fears that had stalked him. It had been three days since the baths had become unnecessary, but as he had not awoken, North, Sandy and Jack had taken turns sitting vigil with him.

It was North who was with him when the man finally came to.

And promptly _freaked the fuck out._

In the aftermath of his massive panic attack, his care fell almost solely to Sandy, as he was the only one who spoke whatever gobbledygook language they'd spoken back in the day, and therefore the only one who could calm the man and explain things. The fact that they'd been thick as thieves back in the good old days played no small part in it, either. Bunny and Tooth had come by to see him once a piece, but neither had stayed long, Tooth sighting her duties to hide her discomfort, and Bunny leaving without a word. Jack didn't blame him, part of his history lessons had covered the Pooka genocide, and even though it was not the same man sequestered in that room, wearing the face of the murder of an entire race probably wasn't going to garner him any favors as far as the last Pooka was concerned. This continued on for a couple more weeks, Jack watching as Sandy grew more and more exhausted, the strain of carrying on his duties from such a distance plus caring twenty-four seven for his old friend pushing him to his limits. When, one day, Jack discovered he couldn't rouse him to take Pitchiner his dinner, Jack realized he'd reached a crossroads. He could leave to man, alone and hungry, in a room he was too terrified to leave all night until Sandy awoke on his own, or he could take him his dinner and risk another fit like the last. Jack debated for all of two seconds before making his decision, memories of his centuries alone, with no explanation and not a scrap of kindness practically making the choice for him. No, Jack figured the greater evil in this situation would be to leave the man to his hunger and solitude, wondering what had happened to the only familiar face in the world, the only compassion he recognized in this strange new world. So it was with knots in his stomach and shaking hands, Jack carefully carried the dinner tray and water pitcher to what had become Pitchiner's room.

Which brings Jack out of his self-pitying flashback and to where he was now, standing tray in hand like an idiot outside Pitchiner's door. Jack could hear the sounds of fretful pacing when he arrived; the man inside obviously aware that dinner was late and already working himself into and anxious frenzy. The steps nearly flew across the room to the door in response to his knocking, the door flying open to reveal a face Jack had never seen awake. The nose was probably too long for the thin face, but his lips were plump and pink, his cheek and brow bones high and elegant, pale features offset by the jet black of his hair and the startling gold of his irises, all of which combined gave him the appearance of being almost accidentally gorgeous. He looked surprised, rightfully so, to see Jack instead of Sandy, but instead of losing his shit again, his face smoothed into pure curiosity and something like interest, the man carefully stepping out of the doorframe to allow Jack entrance.

Which was totally not a part of Jack's master plan, which had been to shove the food and water into Pitchiner arms and bolt like a madman before he managed to fuck this up and incur the Sandman's ultimate wrath. A wrath unlike any other, a wrath which would probably be kind of kinky if he thought about it, what with all the whips and stuff, and now he was just standing uselessly in the doorway like a fool. Jack scurried into the room, gently setting the tray down on the small table. He turned to make a hasty exit, but Pitchiner had closed the door behind him, and oh god Jack was trapped, and Pitchiner was going to have an episode or Jack would do something wrong and hurt the poor guy or something cause Jack? Awesome with the breaking and taking things apart, but not so good with the fixing or putting things back together, ask anyone, and when it came to people it was even worse, what with Jack being kind of like a hand grenade, good at making a big impression but not really great for a subtle touch.

It was then that Jack noticed that the man had frozen halfway back across the room, staring at Jack like he'd never seen a frozen corpse deliver dinner before, which, he'd likely hadn't for obvious reasons. Jack felt his anxiousness ratchet up a notch at the considering look on Pitchiner's face as the man took a step closer.

Then another.

Then on more, until he was just within arms reach. Jack wanted to run, the retreat to do anything but he filet pinned beneath the weight of that assessing gaze. Finally, Pitchiner seemed to some to a conclusion, his eyes softening into something more inviting. His left hand came out; taking Jack's right with fingers that seemed so warm they almost burnt against the permanent chill of Jack's own. Slowly, the winter spirit's hand was raised and pulled forward until it rested on Pitchiner's chest with his hand overlaying Jack's and their fingers laced. Beneath Jack's palm, he could feel the steady thrum of a heartbeat though the thin fabric, one that was just a little too fast for a normal human, or maybe it was just Pitchiner's own nerves. Pitch said something then, in the strange melodic language of heroes and stars and kings, but what it was Jack didn't know, he could only guess that, based on the earnestness in the man's face it meant something like _be not afraid._ Despite the awkwardness, because hello, touching a perfect stranger here, Jack felt himself calm and relax. He'd been there for a whole five minutes and nothing was on fire, there was no screaming, and nobody was curled in a corner weeping. The last mental image was amusing enough that he had to suppress a giggle, an action which Pitchiner noticed immediately and seemed to like, because the corner of his own lips twitched in response. Of course, that drew Jack's attention to Pitchiner's rather lovely mouth and once it was there, well, immortal teenagers apparently had enough hormones to get erections even without a functioning heartbeat, take _that _every biologist ever. And hey, was it Jack's imagination, or were those lips getting closer...oh.

The kiss was sweet, chaste, a gentle press of mouths.

For about three seconds, before Pitchiner made a tiny, needy little sound in his throat and hell, Jack was _there, _because he understood the whole touch-starvation loneliness and isolation thing, and once again, teenage hormones, everything even vaguely sexual degraded into filthy porn when left unattended with him. Now messy and ruthless, the kiss left Jack aching, Pitchiner's wandering hands burning trails of fire on Jack's back even through his hoodie. But enthusiasm, while important, was not to be confused with skill, and skill was something Jack had little of, and with Pitchiner as out of practise as he seemed to be, well it was only a matter of time before Jack got carried away, sinking his teeth into a pouty lower lip just a touch to hard and not realizing it until he tasted blood.

Jack yanked himself back, horrified, staring wide-eyed as his flushed, ruffled partner. Pitchiner seemed bewildered by the abrupt ending to the kiss, starting forward to pull Jack against him again but aborting the movement when a small red droplet dripped from the underside of his lip to his chin. He dabbed at it with a finger, confused, until he say the bloom of crimson on his fingertip and his eyes met Jack's again, something deep and unfathomable within. It was then that Jack embraced his inner coward, fleeing the room with all haste, heading clean out a window and all the way to Burgess at top speed without even stopping to think. The rest of the night was spent pacing circles around his lake, simultaneously hating himself and wanted to fly back to rub against the darker man like a bitch in heat until the both howled. He'd never hated his godforsaken sex drive before so much in his unlife, not that he'd ever really had a sex drive prior to this, but apparently he had a type, and phobic shut-ins with dark pasts were totally it. Seriously though, fuck _everything _in his life.

He musters up the gumption to return the next day rather sheepish, planning on spilling the whole sordid tale to Sandy, who doubtless already knew that _something_ had happened, and take his punishment like a man, but instead he found himself with an armful of ecstatic Dreamweaver the moment he entered the workshop. Sandy was signing so fast Jack almost couldn't follow, but he managed to translate enough to realize that the smaller Guardian was _thanking_ him, for taking care of Pitchiner when he couldn't, and apparently making such a good impression. Jack was flustered, taking care of the man had been the last thing he'd done, really, but Sandy was off on another tangent, explaining how Pitchiner could still feel fear they way Pitch had been able to, the absence of the Fearlings not enough to strip the man of abilities that had been pounded into his meat over eons of possession, and how Jack had been the first being save Sandy he'd encountered who felt fear _for_ him, not of or because of him. It had meant a lot to Pitchiner, who was wracked by guilt for the actions of the Fearlings wearing his face, and found himself torn between being tormented with the loneliness and believing he deserved every second of it.

And the man had apparently not let slip to Sandy about Jack's little lustful transgression, and Jack had no clue what that meant, but he found himself being encouraged to take over more responsibilities for Pitchiner, which would allow Sandy a break and maybe, since he'd responded so well to Jack, it would help coax the man out of the room he'd taken refuge in and back into the wider world. Jack had pasted on a weak smile and agreed, unable to refuse his fellow Guardian anything that made him so deliriously happy, but inside Jack was dying.

This could only end in tears.

Except it didn't. Not the next visit that night to Pitchiner, bring him is dinner, or the night after. While there was no more accidental face-sucking, there was still a tentative camaraderie between them, and Jack had taken to sitting with the other man while he ate. The spoke haltingly, Pitchiner only having picked up a small amount of serviceable English and Jack speaking none at all of his native tongue, but they were both used to Sandy and therefore a variation of charades seemed to do them just fine. Over the course of the next few weeks these almost-conversations continue, growing smoother as familiarity build, and as both learn a little more of the other's respective languages, until they find themselves communicating in a mix of both tongues, and a whole lot of descriptive gestures. Jack doesn't even realize how exclusive it is until Sandy drops by for the first time during one of their visits and is completely unable to follow the conversation, looking thoroughly baffled until they notice and take pity, switching back into their respective tongues when addressing him. The visit is pleasant and concludes when Pitchiner begins to yawn. As they leave, Sandy gives Jack and oddly serious, level stare, like he's trying to read into Jack's soul. Jack squirms a bit in place but stays put until Sandy decides he's seen enough and smiles at the winter child, patting him on the shoulder companionably.

Two months after Jack and Pitchiner's first meeting, Pitchiner left his room for the first time. He started small, to the kitchen and back, and that nearly ended in disaster caused by the elves tearing about the place raising hell like usual, but he survives and the trips become regular events everyday for breakfast. Soon lunches with North in his workshop are added to his daily schedule. Even Tooth takes to dropping by occasionally for tea, although Bunny still hasn't come since the first time, and no one is holding out that he will in any great hurry. The consensus is that he'll work through it in his own time, and in the meantime Jack takes it upon himself to visit a little more often, if only to make sure that the broody fuzzball wasn't angsting away into nothing in a dark room or something.

Eventually, Sandy broaches the idea of Pitchiner leaving the workshop for a shot 'field trip.' It's to the man's credit that, beyond a slightly nauseous look, he agrees without hesitation, provided he can choose the destination, which Sandy accepts. He then immediately requests a tour of Sandy's home, which tickles the golden man absolutely pink with joy. Jack isn't invited on the outing, which doesn't really bother him, bro's need to spend quality time, you know? It seems to have gone well though, judging by the smiles on both their faces when they return. Over the next couple weeks Pitchiner goes out with Sandy a number of times, each trip lasting a little longer, until, one day, Jack arrives at the workshop for his daily dinner date to find Pitchiner stumbling in the front door on his heels, having taken a short walk alone for the first time. He's radiant, flushed from both pride and the usually bitter winds, which seem to have next to no actual effects on the man. He is beyond fetching like this, longish hair playfully tousled and even white teeth perfectly displayed by his smile. Jack steps into his space almost without meaning to and Pitchiner freezes. Jack prepares to back off, to apologize, but Pitchiner's fingertips brush his chin then, his eyes full of longing. The moment breaks though when Phil lumbers in, calling both of them to dinner in Yetish, the pair guiltily pulling away from each other.

Days slip by in kind of a fugue, Jack functioning mostly on autopilot, saving his higher brain function to desperately try and wrap his head around the Pitchiner conundrum. Because really, yes the man was attractive, blind folks could see that, but it was more, something special, almost indefinable that kept dragging Jack into the other man's gravity. Strange as it was to contemplate, Jack kept getting the inkling that Pitchiner was suffering the same in reverse, but really, that was probably just Jack's sense of hope talking, cause who'd be that into someone like him, anyways?

Jack is wrong though, and things crystallize into focus about five months after Jack tripped over a dying Nightmare King in a snow bank in Pennsylvania. Pitchiner makes the request to see Jack's home, and despite the man having had a tour of all the Guardians respective digs so far, barring the Warren, Jack is still blindsided by the request. The frost child isn't dumb enough to discourage the man so he says yes, but he can't help but imagine it ending in disaster, especially on the appointed day when he arrives to escort Pitchiner to the cabin in northern Canada he's made home the past few years and the man is alone, no Sandy along for escort. Which makes total sense because Pitch and Jack get along so well that the buffer of Sandy's presence is not required, unlike it sometimes is during his visits with North and Tooth. Still, Jack has no reason to say no save the oddness in his gut and the shadow in Pitchiner's eyes, so he takes his friend by the hand and calls the Wind to take them home. Pitchiner isn't afraid of heights and must trust Jack to keep him safe, because he laughs almost the whole way there, and by the end Jack is laughing too, deliberately showing off by whipping them in tight loops and through sharp dips, drawings loud whoops and excited exclamations from his partner.

They touch down on Jack's doorstep, and he shyly leads Pitchiner inside. It's a simple one room cabin, once a small RCMP outpost long left abandoned that Jack had warded and fixed up for his use. There was a tiny kitchenette, a small sitting area with fireplace and back in the corner behind a cheery blue curtain was the small single bed Jack occasionally used when he felt like resting. The only separate space was a bathroom so small you had to stand in the shower to open and close the door. Jack took his time with the ten-cent tour, showing Pitchiner the carvings on the mantle gifted to him by Bunny when he'd moved in, the bed sheets a soft silk given by Tooth, the heavy quilt a handmade North original and the handful of lamps lighting the space where filled with dream sand donated by Sandy which would provide constant light, and never go out. It may have been a postage stamp in the middle of nowhere, as cold outside as inside considering Jack had no need to light the fireplace, but it was cozy and it was home, and for a guy who'd spent three centuries as a nomad with nothing but his staff and one change of clothes it was practically a castle.

Pitchiner for his part seems as enthralled by everything as Jack had once been with the stories about him, taking his time walking around the small space, peeking into the bathroom and tapping one of the lamps with a fingernail, grinning. Eventually he meanders back into the 'bedroom,' sitting on the edge of the small bed, hands fisting nervously in the fabric at the knees of his trousers. Jack follows standing just about arms length away, feeling the odd feeling in his stomach from earlier return, more intensely. It turns to wildfire in his veins when Pitchiner reaches for his hands, taking them in his own and drawing Jack closer until their knees bump. He pauses there to make eye contact before very slowly, very deliberately, spreading his thighs to let Jack stand between them, tipping his face up, very obviously waiting for a kiss, and MiM help him Jack cannot resist. Like before the kiss grows heating quickly until both are consumed, grasped at whatever flesh they can reach, Jack's arms sliding up Pitchiner's biceps, over his shoulders where one stops, fingertips digging in to hold on as he laps at Pitchiner's sweet mouth. The other hand slides up the side of the other man's neck and cupping under his jaw, cradling the delicate bone with long cold fingers.

Jack is still as reckless as ever though, loving the way Pitchiner gives way beneath his forcefulness, the older man conceding control to Jack with reservation. It is when Jack hears Pitchiner moan that he realizes he's squeezing with the hand under Pitchiner's chin, fingertips and thumb digging harshly into the soft spots where jawbone meets skull. Jack relents immediately, pulling back and loosening his grip to check for bruising, an apology on his lips when he's forcefully yanked back, Pitchiner cleaving to him like Jack is oxygen, and suddenly, things start slotting into place. There is only one way to confirm his suspicion though, and so, with great care, Jack squeezes again, and again Pitchiner makes a hungry noise, desperately pulling Jack ever closer, hips bucking in a frantic rhythm against Jacks' own, identical hardness meeting through layers of fabric. Pushing aside the pleasurable haze in order to focus, Jack lets the hand drop from Pitchiner's chin, ignoring the distressed sound his friend makes, slipping the hand down to rest over Pitchiner's delicate throat. The man beneath him stutters, losing momentum for a split second, before his crazed rocking resumes, making high, helpless noises into Jack mouth, and fuck control, Jack can't stop himself from tightening his grip on Pitchiner's throat, _just a little._ The small amount of force would barely be enough to restrict airflow, it was really only a warning gesture, a test run if you will, but Pitchiner throws his head back and wails, body seizing and hips jerking in what Jack dazedly realizes is a fantastic orgasm.

The man slumps backwards onto the mattress looking spent. Jack stares at him for a moment, suddenly pissed off because, yeah he totally did that and was really feeling kinda smug about it, but seriously, he was going to die here or something if Pitchiner didn't lend a hand.

Or mouth.

Well, there's an idea.

Stepping back, Jack jerks his shirt off almost violently, tossing it to the side where his pants soon follow. The actions have caught Pitchiner's eyes, and he's struggling past his lethargy to push himself into a sitting position, which is perfect because Jack strides over, all business, and yanks Pitchiner's demure cotton Henley clean off of him, sending it across the room to be with Jack's clothes. Jack only allows himself a second to admire the beautiful body beneath him before he sets his sights on his partner's belt, undoing the buckle and sliding the whole mess of fabric down and off, Pitchiner hastily lifting his hips to aide him, and hello there commando never looked so good, Pitchiner's lovely cock already stirring back to life, his face awash with shock and arousal at Jack's apparent forcefulness. Clambering onto the bed beside his new lover, Jack reaches for Pitchiner's wrists, taking both in one hand and jerking him straight up the bed. Pitchiner lets out a yelp of shock at the action, which bring a smug grin to Jack's lips. Everyone assumed he was some kind of delicate girly boy, what with his waifish frame and baby face, but Jack had the strength of every winter the world had ever seen in his veins and he could probably bench press a Yeti if he wanted. Pitchiner appeared to be appreciating that fact as much as Jack was right now if his suddenly renewed erection had anything to do with it. Without a word, Jack encouraged the other man to grab the rails on the headboard with the silent understanding that Pitchiner was not the let go.

Jack settled back on his haunches for a moment, admiring all the pale, lovely skin stretched out on top of his quilt, but the time had long past for patience and without further ado Jack moved up, straddling Pitchiner's shoulders, using one had not guide his dripping cock to the other's lips. Pitchiner is a clever man, it takes no more than a second and a wide-eyed stare to open wide and accept Jack's length, his lips and tongue going to work as best he can without the aid of his hands. He's either a quick study, or he's experience because he seems to know just how to work Jack into a frenzy; the winter elemental fisting his hands in thick dark hair to help direct the movements better in time with Jack's shallow thrusts. The loss of control seemed to really be Pitchiner's thing because his eyes were shut, his breath coming in harsh pants through his nostrils, and he was moaning like a whore around Jack's dick. Feeling his orgasm approach, Jack adjusted the angle of his shoulder, leaning back a bit so his free hand could reach back and jerk Pitchiner off. The angle was a little awkward on Jacks wrist but he managed a few solid pumps before Pitchiner comes again with a high, keening cry, the vibration of which around Jack's cock tipping him over the edge too.

Jack takes only a second to enjoy the lassitude before climbing off his lover to allow him to breathe. Pitchiner doesn't appear to troubled though, having swallowed down most of Jack's release, the rest staining his chin, only to be wiped off by Jack thumb and pressed to his lips to lick off, which the darker man does with a soft sigh, like Jack is the best thing he's ever tasted.

It's then that Jack realizes Pitchiner still has his arms in place; knuckles so tight on the cold steel headboard they've gone bleach white. Jack carefully coaxes them down with gentle touches, rubbing feeling back into the limbs and stroking Kozmotis's face and neck gently until the man dozes, a satisfies puddle of goo on Jack's bed.

They spend the night, and return to Santoff Claussen the next morning to a very knowing Sandy, who takes in the love bite on Kozmotis's neck, put there during round three, with a remarkable amount of humour for someone who then proceeds to threaten both of them with a slow, painful end if either should hurt the other. Jack laughs at Sandy's antics because he can, then pulls the shorter man into a hug, promising solemnly to be good.

And so things go, the rest of the Guardians find out eventually, and all are accepting in various degrees, even if Bunny still can't quite wrap his head around it. In public, Jack is himself; a laughing, prank-pulling, snot-nosed little twerp everyone adores even when they want to spank is skinny ass, and Kozmotis is the older dignified straight man to all his antics. In private though, Kozmotis exorcizes the demons of his past under Jack's firm hands, letting the boy tie him down, push and pull him any way he sees fit. It settles him, to know that Jack is so strong, that Jack can own him, with nothing but words even if he chooses, and it soothes Kozmotis to know that there is someone with the strength to stop him, should the shadows ever return. It settles Jack to, to know that he is so trusted, so adored, and he's long since vowed to never, ever let his lover down.

To everyone who knows him, Kozmotis Pitchiner is a hero, the newly minted Guardian of Courage, who overcame millennia of possession and of darkness to walk beside his fellows in the light. But to Kozmotis, Jack is the gentle hands in the dark that chase the nightmares away, and that soothe his fears. Jack is the power that keeps him in check when he feels like breaking; that holds him together when he's cracking into pieces. Jack is Kozmotis's sunrise, the ending of centuries of torment in the deepest of shadows.

Jack is Kozmotis's one and only hero, and neither would have it any other way.

"You were the one who taught me," he said. "I never looked at you without seeing the sweetness of the way the world goes together, or without sorrow for its spoiling. I became a hero to serve you, and all that is like you."  
- Peter S. Beagle, _The Last Unicorn_


End file.
